


the dark side of the morning

by onakissgodknows



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Chicago Cubs, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Why Did I Write This?, absolutely no one asked for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 07:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11031129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onakissgodknows/pseuds/onakissgodknows
Summary: THIS IS A RE-UPLOAD -- SEE NOTESA pitcher is on the wrong end of a strikeout to end a marathon game. His catcher wants to make sure he's okay. Set the morning of 5/8/17, after the Cubs lost in 18 innings to the Yankees.





	the dark side of the morning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-upload of a fic I originally uploaded anonymously (about a week ago), but I got several really wonderful comments so I'm posting it under my main pseud and hopefully (fingers crossed) will get around to posting more? We shall see. 
> 
> This is my first go at writing RPF and while I've written plenty of PWP in my time this is my first time posting it online so if this is badly received I can just delete this and we'll pretend it never happened! After the Cubs lost the 18 inning game to the Yankees I had to do SOMETHING to make myself feel better so I've been working on this since then.
> 
> As for the pairing, I'm probably the only person on the planet who ships this, but I have been very on board since last season. Please join me.

Eighteen innings.

Eighteen long, cold, arduous, and ultimately fruitless innings.

Most of the team slept through the two-hour flight to Denver, but Kyle Hendricks barely managed to doze after he found himself, as usual, unable to turn his brain off.

He’s trying his hardest not to think about the clips that will be shown on ESPN and MLB Network tomorrow (okay, later today) of how the Cubs ultimately lost the marathon game against the Yankees.

Kyle understands, of course. There was no other option for a pinch hitter but for the sake of his pride and sanity he almost wishes Maddon had risked Heyward’s finger, because a healthy Heyward might have given them a chance.

Kyle Hendricks, pinch hitter. At least he can scratch that off his bucket list. Maybe one day his stomach won’t churn at the memory.

It’s early Monday morning when the team shuffles sleepily into their Denver hotel, hoping to catch a few more hours of sleep before the series against the Rockies begins. Anthony Rizzo looks dead on his feet, nursing his bruised left arm. Javy Baez, mercifully, is not limping, and Kyle fervently hopes any ankle trouble he had will be gone by tomorrow.  

As Kyle heads down the hall to his hotel room, someone slides an arm around his waist, heavy torso leaning against him. “Buddy,” Willson Contreras says in his ear. Contreras is staggering, he’s so damn tired even after a couple hours of sleep on the plane that Kyle puts an arm around him too, just to keep him on his feet.

“You need sleep,” Kyle says unnecessarily, digging his hotel key out of his pocket as he reaches his door.

“Won’t be able to,” Contreras says, and Kyle doesn’t believe it for a moment, but he’s pretty sure Contreras knows he’s less than thrilled about how the game ended and is looking for an excuse to talk to him. “Wanna let me in?”

Kyle shrugs. “Sure, but I don’t guarantee good company.”

“S’okay.” Contreras shoulders past Kyle to walk into the hotel room ahead of him.

“Good job last night,” Kyle says as he follows him in. “Seriously impressive.” Catching eighteen innings is no joke. Contreras’s knees have to be killing him. “Especially that single, in the – what, sixteenth? Seventeenth?”

Contreras cracks up, delirious. “That was a _terrible_ hit!”

“Yeah, but an excellent bunt,” Kyle says, cracking a grin. Everyone in the dugout had lost it at that point – Contreras’s bat shattering, the ball somehow staying fair, and Contreras somehow beating the throw to first. Contreras, beaming, had turned to the dugout and lifted his arms in triumph.

Of course, as is becoming the norm, the offense failed to cash in on the baserunner.

Like Contreras is reading his mind, he pats Kyle on the arm. “We’ll get them tomorrow,” he says happily.

Kyle glances at the digital clock on the dresser. “Later today, you mean?” First pitch is less than twelve hours away. Mentally, Kyle tries to calculate how much sleep he’s going to be able to get. Not enough, and he won’t even be playing.  

He hopes Maddon won’t put Contreras in the lineup. He thinks their manager knows better than that, but Kyle never knows when Maddon is about to do something, well, unorthodox.

Contreras, again, is thinking the same thing, and chuckles. “Well, if we don’t, it’s not _our_ fault.”

Kyle laughs. At least it’s Jake Arrieta pitching tonight. He trusts Arrieta’s arm – and Jake’s bat, come to think of it, more than he trusts his own, anyway.

“Maybe,” Contreras says, “I can give you some batting pointers. Since you’re a pinch hitter now. Your swing’s not bad. What happened, didn’t see the ball well?”

Kyle shakes his head, still laughing. “I’m glad one of us thinks this is funny.”

Contreras grins back at him. “Could’ve hit a home run. Could’ve walked off.”

“Jesus.” Kyle covers his face. “It was just embarrassing, Willy! Me pinch hitting? What’s my fucking batting average, .106?”

Contreras shrugs. “I don’t even know my own average. Just that it’s not too good.”

Kyle imagines, for a moment, living in blissful ignorance of his batting average. A luxury perhaps afforded to pitchers who didn’t just strike out as pinch hitters to end an eighteen-inning marathon. “So you’re saying you’re not exactly the best person to be my hitting coach.” He doesn’t know Contreras’s average either, but he does know that Contreras has been struggling at the plate lately.

Then again, who on this team hasn’t?

“Maybe not,” Contreras answers. “Maybe ask Jake. Or Lackey. Lackey can kinda rake.”

“Yeah,” Kyle says drily. “Thanks, buddy. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Contreras sighs. “Don’t look so worried.”

Kyle feels like he always looks worried. His _resting face_ is worried. Being part of a team is stressful. All he can control is his own performance. Kyle at his best is nothing if the rest of the team can’t back him up. On the flip side, the rest of the team could be playing their best game and if Kyle has a bad outing it doesn’t matter.

“We played good tonight,” Contreras goes on. “It just didn’t go our way.”

He sounds like he’s answering a reporter’s question, but he’s right. Kyle knows that no one on the team will blame him for tonight’s loss. It still sucks an unbelievable amount to have been the final strikeout, but maybe Kyle can let it go. Wash off tonight’s loss and get ready for his start in a couple of days. That’s how it goes in this game. Kyle knows he needs to let go of the stress and just enjoy playing, which is what Contreras does, he’s sure.

Kyle gives himself a shake. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow – later today – and do some yoga. Make sure he’s relaxed and loose for his next start. He can’t worry about the games between now and then, and, God willing, he won’t have to pinch hit again.

Contreras smacks his arm. “You listening to me? You think too much, man.”  

Kyle sinks onto the edge of his bed. “I heard you.” Contreras is still looking at him with the kind of intensity that terrifies baserunners and reassures his pitchers, so Kyle smiles. “I’m okay, Willy. You should go to bed.”

Contreras shakes his head. “I’m not tired.”

“Bullshit,” Kyle says.

Contreras sits down next to him and drapes his arm around Kyle’s shoulders. “Maybe a little.” He’s leaning into Kyle, probably because it’s easier to do that than support himself. “Wanna be sure you’re good though.”

“Willy.” Kyle turns his head to look at him and Contreras is looking back, his lips slightly parted and his tired eyes moving from Kyle’s eyes to his mouth and back again. Kyle swallows, his throat dry. “Um.”

Then Contreras’s lips are on his and Kyle’s body lets go of all the tension he didn’t even realize he’d been holding onto.

Contreras leans his forehead against Kyle’s, placing his hands on Kyle’s face, and Kyle lets out a heavy, shaking breath. He grabs Contreras by the back of the head, closing his eyes. “You could do that again. If you wanted to.”

Instead, Contreras lifts his face and presses a kiss to Kyle’s forehead. Kyle sighs and wraps his arms around Contreras, buries his face against his shoulder as he curls his fingers into the back of Contreras’s black t-shirt. Contreras laughs, rubbing Kyle’s back with one hand while the other cups the back of his head. He nudges Kyle’s chin up so he can kiss him again. Kyle lets him, kisses him back, gently touching his cheek.

Contreras abruptly pulls away and stands. Kyle looks up at him, bewildered, as Contreras kicks his shoes off. “Can I stay?” he asks point-blank. When Kyle nods, he plucks at the collar of his t-shirt. “Can I take this off?”

Kyle nods again and Contreras yanks his shirt off and drops it to the floor, giving Kyle a kind of defiant side-eye.

One of these days – it’s inevitable, it happens to catchers – someone is _really_ going to bowl Contreras over diving for home plate and Kyle isn’t sure Contreras will come out on the losing end of that battle. He’s built like a brick wall, and if his glare isn’t enough to scare somebody off, that ought to deter it from ever happening again.

That said, Kyle notices that his jaw still bears the ghost of a bruise where it collided with Starlin Castro’s elbow two nights ago. He moves so he’s leaning against the headboard when Contreras comes back to the bed and runs his fingers down Contreras’s bruised jaw. “This looked like it could’ve been a lot worse.”

Contreras snorts. “It was nothing.”

“Yeah, luckily. Scary to watch.”

Contreras waves his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. You didn’t like it, but I’m okay.” As if to change the subject from himself, he leans down and kisses Kyle a little aggressively, shoving his hands under his shirt. “Take this off, man, c’mon,” Contreras says when he pauses for breath, and who is Kyle to refuse? He sits up enough to take his shirt off. Contreras takes it from him, drops it on the floor, and then (Kyle feels like his heart stops for a moment) he swings one leg over so he’s straddling Kyle’s lap and kisses him like his life depends on it.

It should not surprise Kyle that Contreras puts as much passion into kissing as he does into baseball. He hears himself moan against Contreras’s lips as Contreras, shockingly tender, takes his time deepening their kiss, his mouth warm on Kyle’s. Contreras rolls his hips into Kyle’s, his jeans chafing against Kyle’s bare stomach, and Kyle inhales sharply. “Sorry,” Contreras says, moving his mouth to kiss Kyle’s throat.

Kyle laughs, a little nervously. “Don’t _apologize_.” His hand goes to the back of Contreras’s neck, stroking down his back as Contreras kisses his way down Kyle’s neck and collarbone. His hips roll into Kyle’s again, and Kyle bucks up to meet them, which unseats Contreras just enough for his head to knock into Kyle’s chin. Kyle’s teeth clack together and he lets out an “ow!” as Contreras hisses in pain.

“Sorry, sorry!” Contreras sits up just enough that he can meet Kyle’s eyes, and cups Kyle’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry.”

Kyle’s laughing again. “My fault. I’m okay – you?”

“Yeah, I’m good, man.” Contreras grins back and runs one hand through Kyle’s hair. “If you wanted me to stop you could say. You don’t have to hurt me.”

Kyle finds it hard to stop laughing. “If anything I was trying to say keep fucking _going_ , but I think I fucked it up.”

His laugh turns into a groan as Contreras’s hips jut forward again. He can feel that Contreras is hard in his jeans, and can’t help noticing his own are growing uncomfortably tight.

Contreras, making a quiet noise deep in his throat, buries his face in Kyle’s neck and bites gently. In turn, Kyle moans again, a lot louder than he meant to, before biting down on his lower lip to get himself to shut up.

“Shush,” Contreras says, and nips at Kyle’s earlobe. “Who is next door?”

Kyle has no idea. Arrieta, maybe? “I think everyone else is probably asleep,” he manages to gasp. He’s not really interested in thinking about Arrieta right now, or anyone, anyone but Contreras, whose hands are everywhere, exploring Kyle’s bare chest, and who’s driving his hips into Kyle’s like he intends to fuck him through their clothes. “Fuck, Willy.”

Contreras gives him another kiss before he finally sits up, still grinding his ass down onto Kyle’s lap, and yeah, Kyle’s hard and he’s not sure if Contreras is teasing him intentionally or not at this point.

Of course, no one said Contreras had to call all the shots. He wraps an arm around Contreras’s waist, tugging him closer as he sits up straight. They’re so close their noses are almost touching, and Contreras laughs. “Hi, Kyle.”

Kyle’s name in Contreras’s voice, in this context, with Willy speaking that soft and gentle – it makes his stomach do a backflip. Kyle smiles and kisses Contreras’s lips lightly. “Hi.” He runs his hands down Contreras’s chest to his waistband. When Contreras doesn’t protest, he unbuttons his jeans.

“Kyle,” Contreras says, and Kyle lifts his eyes to meet his. “I don’t have a condom or any shit like that.”

Kyle shakes his head. “It’s okay – I don’t – I just want – “ He’s not sure how to articulate the rest of this sentence because somehow he never imagined he’d be asking one of his teammates if he could blow them, yet with Contreras he isn’t embarrassed. (Though maybe after striking out tonight Kyle can’t get embarrassed anymore. Maybe that, the pinnacle of humiliation, makes everything else pale in comparison.)

Because Contreras is a mind reader, he gets what Kyle is trying to say. He kisses him (slow and deep, arching his back so every inch of his torso presses against Kyle’s), then finally moves off Kyle’s lap. He motions for Kyle to move over, and Kyle does so Contreras can kneel next to him.

Kyle, for once, is not thinking much as he tentatively ghosts his fingers down Contreras’s ribs and presses a kiss to his stomach. He feels a little lightheaded from kissing (or possibly sleep deprivation, or maybe he’s dehydrated, or maybe it’s the thin Denver air), and he doesn’t even take the time to think _this is weird_ or _things might get awkward_ or _this might be something Willson and I have to talk about in the future_. He’s focused on getting Contreras’s jeans unzipped, and then he splays his hands on Contreras’s thighs as he takes him into his mouth.

Kyle hears Contreras’s breath hitch in his chest.

Now Kyle’s definitely not thinking about anything, not strikeouts (his own or otherwise), not the fact that the team is hovering around .500, and not the fact nobody on the pitching staff seems able to escape the first inning without a run. All he’s thinking about is the quiet little noises Contreras is making in his throat and how Kyle can make him keep making that sound.

Kyle hasn’t really done this before but he knows what feels good, and Contreras does not seem difficult to please. He’s balancing on his knees with a hand on Kyle’s shoulder to steady himself as his breath comes in sharp bursts. His cock was hard long before Kyle got it in his mouth, so it’s not like Kyle had to do much in that department.

And Kyle had thought Contreras was tired.  

He’d thought _he_ was tired too, but certain parts of his anatomy strongly disagree. It’s at the point that it’s uncomfortable so he fumbles one-handed to unbutton his jeans as he bobs his head up and down on Contreras’s cock. He sneaks a look up at Contreras and his eyes are closed, lips slightly parted. He squeezes Kyle’s shoulder reassuringly, noticing he’s slowed.

Kyle wraps one hand around his own cock and one around the base of Contreras’s. It has to be the worst blowjob Contreras has ever received, but Kyle finds a rhythm that isn’t uncomfortable and Contreras seems to like it, moving his hips in sync with Kyle’s mouth. Kyle twists his hand around his cock and moans, and in turn Contreras lets out a throaty sigh and mumbles something in Spanish that Kyle might be able understand if he put his mind to it, but his attention is elsewhere.

He can tell Contreras is close by how much shorter his breath is getting, and his moans are getting louder and his hand tightens on Kyle’s shoulder as the other rakes through Kyle’s hair, fisting and then letting go immediately like he’s afraid he might hurt him pulling too hard. Around his ragged breaths, he babbles, “Kyle, Kyle, I’m gonna – I – please lemme – lemme do – “

Kyle eases his mouth off Contreras’s cock and it brushes his cheek, leaving a wet streak as Contreras sits back on his heels and Kyle watches him take himself in his hand and pump. Kyle feels his face flush and he wraps his hand tighter around his own cock as he watches Contreras bring himself to the edge, his head tilted back and eyes still shut tight.

With a stifled cry, Contreras arches his back and then there’s cum on Contreras’s hand, and his pant leg, and on Kyle’s face, and Kyle somehow can’t bring himself to care as Contreras leans down and kisses him again, breathless and messy. Contreras wipes his hand on his own jeans as he moves down the bed and swats at Kyle’s legs to get him to spread them. He positions himself between Kyle’s legs and reaches for his cock, a question in his eyes, and Kyle nods and lets Contreras move his hand to take his cock in his mouth. Kyle doesn’t know if Contreras has ever done this – he can’t tell and he doesn’t care because it seems like only seconds before he comes in his mouth and Contreras swallows and licks gently as he goes soft before tucking him back into his pants. And then, suddenly, Contreras is off the bed and gone so fast Kyle could almost believe he only imagined his presence in the first place.

Kyle’s head is still in a fog, his eyes closed and chest heaving, when Contreras comes back and presses a damp cloth to his cheek, wiping it clean. Kyle opens his eyes and looks up at him. He smiles at him gently and takes the cloth. “Thank you.”

Contreras took his jeans off at some point. He sits on the bed next to Kyle in his boxers and looks down at him. He looks a little nervous, all of a sudden, like he’s not sure what Kyle’s going to do. “Can I stay?” he asks again.

Kyle sits up. There is gray daylight streaming through the curtains, but they have to sleep. Whether they play today or not, it’s a necessity and Kyle is sure Contreras won’t be able to keep his eyes open much longer. He puts an arm around Contreras’s bare shoulders and kisses his temple, then his cheek. “Of course.” If it is Arrieta in the room next door, he’ll be awake in a couple of hours and even if he does see the two of them, he won’t notice anything. When Arrieta makes his starts, he spends the entire day in his own little world. Kyle kisses Contreras’s cheek again. “I’ll be right back.”

He goes to the bathroom and splashes water on his face, clearing his head, then brushes his teeth, with perhaps a little more vigor than usual. When he reenters the bedroom, Contreras is spread-eagled face down in the middle of the bed. He props himself up on an elbow and blinks tiredly as Kyle approaches.

“Do you want to talk?” Kyle asks cautiously, because this is the kind of thing they might want to talk about.

Contreras shakes his head.

“Not now, or not ever?” Kyle asks.

“Not now,” Contreras says. “You think too much.” He moves over so Kyle has room to lay down next to him and slaps the mattress. “Come sleep.”

Kyle smiles. He kicks off his jeans so he’s in his underwear like Contreras, and gets into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chest. Contreras is on top of the sheets, looking at him. Kyle shakes his head. “You can get under the covers. Just don’t, like, spoon me. I sleep on my back anyway.”

“You would,” Contreras mumbles, and Kyle has no idea what he means by that, but Contreras crawls under the covers and flops back on the pillows, closing his eyes with a satisfied groan.

Kyle reluctantly reaches for his phone. “I’m setting an alarm.”

“’Kay,” Contreras says, eyes still shut.

“It’s gonna be like five hours.”

“Perfect,” Contreras mutters.

“I’ll see you in the morning.” Later in the morning.

“Yeah,” Contreras says. “We can talk then.”

Kyle isn’t sure he’ll have his head on straight enough to talk then, but Contreras may be saying that to placate him. He leans over and drops a kiss on Contreras’s forehead, and Contreras smiles without opening his eyes. Kyle turns the light off.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who read this when I first uploaded this and left comments!
> 
> Title of this fic is from "It Ain't Me" by Kygo & Selena Gomez.


End file.
